


Solitude (No Man Can Help You Die)

by orphan_account



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, M/M, Spirits, Witch Burning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his mother is murdered, Q must find his own way in Viking-Age Britain. But there's an angry spirit terrorizing his new home and his mother's books mentioned nothing about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Q was ten when he realized why he and his mother had to live away from anyone else. He still believed the gods had blessed her hands, allowing her to heal injured animals and his own broken fingers when he fell from a tree, and thought nothing was wrong with the way she would bend over a pot and mutter into its contents as steam rose around her face and made their home smell like wet leaves and sometimes blood. He never peaked when someone came to the door and his mother pushed him into his room, and never listened in even when he could hear muffled conversation.

He was no longer, however, ignorant.

He knew his mother was a witch, even though he had no idea why people would fear her. His mother was the kindest person he knew, especially compared to the awful people who would sometimes banged on their door and demanded something of them. They made his mother cry, and sometimes even made her angry, but she never hurt them in return. Everything she did, he knew, was to keep them both safe.

Q was thirteen when he passed his rite of passage and could enter full-time training. His mother persisted that he held her blood in his veins, and the family line must be maintained. He often thought she wanted a daughter in place of a son, but she never told him so and never hinted that women made better witches. Q wondered sometimes if he was normal, or if he was the only male witch to be born.

He was a smart child, borderline genius as he entered his teenage years and began to seek freedom from his mother. He loved her, yes, but sometimes he wanted to be alone and sharing a two room house with her did not make that easy. He took to walking to the other side of the river and climbing trees, only to return when the sun began to set. His mother never tried to make him stay, only expressing her concern with how vulnerable he was out there all alone. 

Q was fifteen when he saw smoke from his perch in his tree. At first, he was unconcerned, figuring his mother had simply lit a fire to make more potions or some supper. Once the smoke grew stronger, however, his heart seized in panic. He ran the entire way back to his mother, fear making his heart stutter more than the effort did.

His mother had often warned him about the hearts of man, how they would cheat and steal and try to hurt those who were different from them for no other reason. Men were scared of what Q and his mother were, what they could do and how much power they held in their blood, and would do anything they could to keep their own fear hidden. Men would turn to anger and violence to save their pride. Women could be no better, but weren’t allowed the same aggression their husbands and sons were. Q didn’t understand men and didn’t want to.

Q was fifteen when he became an orphan. He arrived too late to save his mother, who had been dragged and thrown into her own fire, but part of the house hadn’t burned and was salvageable. He cried over his mother’s body for hours before it grew too dark for him to see and he knew he had to do something. The smell of her would attract scavengers if he wasn’t careful, and thus he buried her—what remained of her—behind the house and cried over the grave instead.

He took three days to fix what he could in the homestead, refusing to go around back in fear that he could lose control of his already volatile emotions and cry again if he saw her grave. Her murderers had obviously feared the power their house held to set foot in it, let alone pillage it, so they had settled for setting the roof on fire and leaving. On horseback, if the prints were any indication. After trying to set his home right again, Q realized that even with all the good memories that lingered, he could not stay in the same place his mother was murdered and he hadn’t been around to stop it.

She wouldn’t blame him for not being there for her, he knew, she’d probably even prefer it if it meant him keeping his life, but Q couldn’t bear to look around the kitchen without being crushed by the guilt of abandoning her. Q needed to leave this place before that guilt drove him insane, and probably towards doing something that would cost him his own life.

So Q packed a rucksack with a change of clothes, a few herbs he knew he’d need to make a healing salve in a pinch, and some bread. He brought tools too: his mother’s mortar and pestle, a frying pan, twine, a needle and thread. Cleaning the soot off his mother’s walking stick, he donned his cloak and set out in the morning.

Day one brought an ache in his calves and his shoulders. On the second day his blisters had popped and he had limped for the most part. It was three days before his feet were too sore to walk and he had to take shelter in a tree for the night. He tied his pack next to him like his mother had taught him and relaxed in the safety of the branches, out of sight from anyone who might happen to walk underneath him. He was thankful for his calm sleep that night, not too keen on falling from his perch from a nightmare. Nightmares plagued him regularly and that night was no different, but the change of scenery and pace seemed to help. He was also too exhausted to worry about his mother’s grave and the home he abandoned.

On the fourth day, Q stopped walking to put distance between him and his old home and instead focused on finding a good place to build a new one. He stopped in several places day after day, but none of them felt right to him. The first spot was too dark, hidden deep within the trees. The second was too wet, close to a marsh and thick with brambles. The third place was perfect, close to a lake and quiet, but one the second night he noticed the lights across the lake and the second morning he saw the cut they made into the landscape. He hesitated on leaving, having grown fond of the spot at the base of the mountain.

So he lingered, not yet daring to light a fire at night but setting wood out to dry so when he finally did it wouldn’t smoke. It was summer so he didn’t shiver at night, but animals scrounged about beneath the tree and Q had no way of scaring them away. He was running low on bread as well, supplementing his diet with berries and mushrooms he could identify. What saved him was the familiarity of the surroundings, as he couldn’t have walked so far on his own two feet to completely leave the woods behind. He had been tempted to turn to the west and walk until he reached the ocean, but his mother had often warned him of the frequency of man along the coast. In the safety of the forest, Q could arm himself with spells and potions and avoid detection.

On the sixth night, Q awoke to a bright light in the forest. At first he was disoriented from sleep and didn’t realize what disturbed him. Then the light grew stronger and it filled the forest with a pale blue glow. Q stared, certain he must be dreaming to witness something so pure and enthralling, then doubted his mind’s ability to conjure something so beautiful. He couldn’t bear to look away, didn’t dare blink for fear such a sight would disappear. It didn’t. If anything, the light grew stronger and drew closer, and then it seemed to pass by. Q watched it go, entranced by the light, floating way it moved across the ground, passing through trees and underbrush without wavering in intensity or momentum. It passed over the lake, illuminating the water on its way across like a beacon to the Gods.

It was only then Q noticed the still of the forest and the quiet of the otherwise boisterous human town. Almost with the coming of the mysterious light, the settlement was muted and somber. Sounds carried over the water with astounding clarity, for the most part, and Q often found himself listening in on the music that floated towards him. Compared to the usual volume of activity, this level of silence was eerie. A baby began to wail then was quickly silenced, and Q thought he might have heard the cry of a frightened or distressed animal, but that too ended quickly. From what Q could see and hear, the settlement was, well, calm.

Or perhaps petrified.  

He waited for as long as he could keep his eyes open. The black sky began to lighten to purple when the light slowly returned from the other side of the lake and disappeared into the depths of the trees where it had come. Despite the fast approaching dawn, Q settled back into his perch in the trees and fell back to sleep. When he awoke again, the sun was well on its way through the sky and he passed off the night before as a strange dream. He didn’t completely disregard its importance, as his mother always told him dreams had a meaning and a purpose, but, for the most part, he pushed to the back of his mind and focused on making his new home comfortable and permanent.

A month passed and he was still busy crafting the base of a small hut out of woof he could fell, drag, and chop without help. He had the skeleton finished and a roof over his head (however patchy) to protect him from the elements. Every night, Q thanked the Gods for good weather, and when it poured he begged them for mercy. He sacrificed a small portion of each meal to their omnipotence even when hunger clawed at his stomach and refused to let him rest. Some days, he had to forego work on his hut just to find enough food to eat. The lake was his saving grace, and over the course of that first month he quickly mastered the art of spearing fish with long, sharpened sticks. Eventually, he hoped to twist enough rope to fashion a net, or perhaps trade for one. But interaction with the human town had to be limited, if at all, so he bid his time and supported himself by his own means.

The light returned on the New Moon, setting the hillside aflame with the strange, chilly glow of its presence. Its light woke Q and he watched it float towards the town. Again, there was no sound during its stay, and it lingered until morning. When Q woke later he thought perhaps he was being sent a vision, a message. Without his mother’s expertise, he did his best to decode it and ended up with nothing. His only guess, however much it made his stomach turn, was that the answer to his dream lay within the walls of the human town. It made his skin crawl just to think of it, but he donned his cloak and left, leaving his mother’s walking stick behind to keep it safe. He brought a few things to trade, mostly thing he had found in his short travels that could be of some value, and herbs that grew in abundance on his side of the lake.

When he arrived, the town was disquieted. People eyed him with distrust but made no move to snatch him up and burn him, so Q took that as a good sign. He made his way to what he assumed to be the central shop and entered, trying to appear as friendly and inconspicuous as possible. Unfortunately, new faces garnered attention from locals whether they liked it or not. A few women whispered behind their hands at his arrival, but the shop keep only gave him a level stare. “What can I do f’ya?”

“Oh, um, I’m in need of some rope,” said Q, unshouldering his rucksack and setting it on his feet. “Do you trade?” he asked, hopeful, and the man eyed him with suspicion.

“What d’ya have?”

Q glanced around the shop, taking stock of what was displaced to get a feel for what he should present in trade. “Herbs mostly, some smoked fish,” he said, figuring anything practical would gain him more traction. He was wary of being swindled, as his mother often warned him about the greed of man, but he traded what he felt was a fair and was happy with the transaction. “Thank you so much,” he said, knowing it was best to be polite.

“Ya not from around here, ya passin through?” the man asked, coiling Q’s rope up tight and proper and taking the bushels of centaury and wild garlic from where Q placed them on the counter. It wasn’t as much rope as Q needed, but he figured it was a start.

“I plan on staying for a while,” he said.

“Need a room?” the man asked, confusing Q.

“Oh no, I don’t have any money for that,” said Q, quickly, not wanting to linger. “But if I come back with more to trade, can I get more rope?”

“Dun see why not,” said the man, frowning at him. “What’d’ya need all this for, anyhow?”

“A fishnet, of course,” said Q. “Thank you,” he said, stuffing the rope into his pack and making for the door.

“Be careful in those woods, honey, there are monsters and robbers sure to eat one like ya right up!” a woman called after him, and Q paled, staring at her, then scurried out the door. He wished there was a way to trade with humans without actually interacting with them.

Refusing to return until he absolutely needed to, Q made his way quickly through the colony and around lake. However fast he walked, however, he couldn’t escape the wary eyes. There were whispers of a demon in the woods that came when the moon could not protect them, and Q slowed to hear the details despite himself.

“It come for the Abbott girl, I’m telling ya,” one woman said.

“I hear she been runnin around with the son of the butcher,” a second one.

“I dun care f’what it come, we need to drive it back,” said a man, angrier than the women, and the women crowded around him in support of this.

Q moved on, thoughts hurried. But this was none of his business, so he returned to the woods on his side of the lake.

Another month passed, and the light returned.

Screams echoed across the lake that night.


	2. Chapter 2

Smoke rose from the other side of the lake the next morning. Q was afraid to return, knowing all too well the potential dangers of mankind when angered or in distress. A voice in the back of his mind warned him not to go back, so Q made do with the small amount of rope he had already bought and started storing fish for the winter. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t starve being on his own for the first time, but winters were thankfully mind –however wet—and so he prayed it would stay the same again for this year.

He set traps and picked berries and finally built up the courage to build a fire at night to keep animals away from his food and his growing homestead. He began to line his walls with mud and hay and thatch his own roof and refused to admit that maybe he needed to find an expert in either skill; he had helped his mother make repairs on their cottage, after all, so how hard could it be?

Another month passed and Q couldn’t ignore the fire that lit the hillside the night the light came back. Empathy fought with self-preservation within him and the two forces were so strong they immobilized him and rendered him useless. There could be people dying –he couldn’t know for sure what was happening when the light came on each New Moon—and yet he did nothing to help them. He didn’t even know if he had any way of helping, or if they would accept his aide. The humans could turn on him as they turned on his mother. They couldn’t be trusted, and yet his mother had taught him to be both wary and compassionate, to never turn away someone in need.

And Q was lonely, and on some level he hoped they would welcome him into their community if only he proved himself to be useful. At only fifteen he was perhaps a bit naïve when it came to humans, even when the separation between them and himself was abundantly clear. He feared them, but they fascinated him. He wanted to immerse himself in their culture and study them, for he had heard tales of their resilience and strength and love, his mother weaving bedtime stories out of the air above his bed and leaving him in awe. She told him of a time when witches were valued, when their people were held a step above the common folk due to the power in their blood and their connection to the gods. Those times were all but past as men resolved to take away a witches power, to remove what made them different and honoured and autonomous. With each new generation, superstition grew more and more skewered and distrustful.

Q was the last of a proud line of witch women, an anomaly in centuries of daughters learning the trade from their mothers, and he would undoubtedly die the last of his kind. He was not unrealistic in his expectations; he lived alone in the middle of the woods in a world that didn’t trust outsiders. Even if he should happen to father a child there was only a very small chance he would have the opportunity to teach her the ways of their foremothers without risking their safety. It was easy to accept, given this information, his mother’s legacy would be laid to rest with him and him alone.

Still, that did not mean Q wished to remain alone for the rest of his life. His only friend had been his mother and the occasional woodland creature until it was fully healed and ready to return to the forest, and yet he craved companionship. His safety was not worth friendship, however, and thus he would stay on his current path. Winter was approaching, regardless, so he focused his time on preparations for that. His walls were almost ready to be daubed and the thatching on his roof would quickly follow, even if he had to restart because the original slant was too shallow to shed water before it could be retained in the thatch itself. He smoked fish every night and storing it underneath the finished part of the roof, and the hearth itself kept predators away, along with the charms he put up around the in-progress roundhouse.

Another month passed and suddenly the leaves were falling in larger amounts than ever before. Q didn’t know what to make of it, wondering how far north he had ended up. He ventured into town again, this time trading fish and herbs for salt and wool mittens, the basics of getting through the winter. He’d need a lot more to get through the long months ahead, but he didn’t know what else to do. He made as many herbal concoctions as he could, ones for cold hands and empty stomachs and sleepless nights. Potions for fire and warmth joined his stash, along with runes of protection, abundance, and luck. A charm of new life revived his small garden for one last harvest of carrots, potatoes, and onions, all of which were dried and went into his storage. Wild mushrooms, resilient to the encroaching cold, joined the growing pile. He emptied his rucksack before climbing a gnarled apple tree and ended with a surprising bounty.

He ignored the constant complaints of his stomach, knowing it would only get worse. Q stopped brushing his fingers over his ribs when he noticed he could count them all without poking or prodding. He hunted for honey, remembering his mother using it in lean times to supplement their diet, and nearly cried when he came across a hive at the edge of a meadow. He begged for a few old jars from the shop keep, who eyed him with visible concern no doubt seeing the gauntness of his face and the thinness of his fingers. It took an entire day to smoke the bees and collect enough to fill all three jars, but that night Q fell asleep with the taste of honey and hope on his tongue and the tips of his fingers.

He became an expert at setting traps after months of making them wrong. He danced when he caught his first mink, his hunger not letting him hesitate as he cut and skinned the animal. Mink traps soon spanned around his side of the lake when it became clear no humans had ventured along the lake edge for many months. Frequently Q found abandoned traps and snares and took them for himself to be placed elsewhere. Thanks to the light, Q was the only soul living off the southern part of the forest. All woodland ventures, including hunting, trapping, and logging, stopped past a certain point. The superstition that so often endangered his life now saved Q from starvation.

Q was sitting in one of the trees facing the lake when the sun began to set on the night of the New Moon. He watched the sun sink passed the horizon and knew he should climb down and retreat into his roundhouse for the night. It was best not to watch the destruction, even from such a distance, lest he do something drastic. When the sun was gone and the only light came from the stars and the hearth still roaring in his hut, Q waited for the light and wasn’t disappointed. It made its way through the trees, never hesitating no matter what lay beneath its feet. Interestingly enough, Q noticed it seemed to move towards its set location but went slowly, steadily. He wondered what kind of malicious spirit held such purpose in its soul. If spirits had souls, he liked to think some of them did.

When it came closer, Q was able to see form beneath the ominous blob of light. He strained his eyes, moving to a different branch to see better. Whatever it was, or what it represented in its ethereal form, it walked on four legs and wore an expansive crest on its head. None of his mother’s books had mentioned any specific spirits, only certain types and how they could be called upon or banished or placated. Beneath his tree, just on the edge of the water, the light paused as if looking out over the lake. Q barely moved, his breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. Yet even that seemed to be too sudden because the magnificent crest turned towards him and, presumably, stared straight at him. Q’s stomach turned violently but he could not look away.

And then it began to move again, across the lake where Q could not follow only stare until his vision lost its clarity and he was forced to look away. But Q had seen something in that light and he knew there was a puzzle to be solved involving it. Scaling down his tree, Q gathered his scattered tools and bedded down in his house for the night, wooden door not hinged correctly but still in place firmly enough to keep critters out at night. He set the hearth to dwindle throughout the night, not wanting it too get out of control as he slept, and then rolled himself up with his cloak and blankets.

Q slept restlessly that night, his mind active and the forest silent. In the morning, life in the forest resumed as normal and Q’s determination was set on a new goal. He was to go into town, find out as much as he could from their accounts of the monthly visits, and then go about figuring out why the spirit came and why it chose the humans as its victims. He donned his cloak, brought a jar of honey to trade, and left his mother’s walking stick behind on his trek around the lake. Even the smoke rising from the settlement would not dissuade him from going, nor the barking dogs or the sounds of the crying children. Upon his emergence, no one paid him any mind. The shop keep seemed grateful his wares were undisturbed and his shop still standing, but he was also on edge.

“What do you need?” he asked, stacking crates behind his counter and beginning to unload them onto the shelves on display. It was liquor, something which Q had only ever seen his mother use for medicine or for cooking.

“What happened last night?” said Q, leaning onto the counter earnestly.

The man paused, a bottle in his hand. “Where do you live in the forest?” he asked, gaze hard on Q’s face.

Q swallowed nervously. “The south side of the lake,” he said, not knowing fully how to lie to someone’s face without ruining the effect completely and suffering the consequences.

The man looked away, “you shouldn’t stay there. It’s dangerous,” he said.

“From what I can see… it’s more dangerous to live here,” said Q, fully realizing the weight of his words.

The man looked full ready to give him a tongue lashing and kick him out of the shop, but an old woman hobbled down the stairs and interrupted him. “Mallory, don’t go yellin at em just because he’s right,” she said, leaning heavily on the railing with each step.

“Mother,” the man said, quickly moving towards her. “The doctor said for you to stay in bed.”

“The doctor says a lot of things, boy, many of them shite. And I couldn’t just let you take out all your frustration on this poor boy,” she said, reaching out to Q to lean weight on him, to which he supported her automatically, looking a bit confused. “Mal, bring me some mead, I’d like to sit in my chair,” she pointed Q in the right direction and he walked her across the room and helped her sit down in a large, comfortable looking and well-worn arm chair.

“Now, let’s start at the beginning. When I was a child the town had just barely begun to grow. My mother and father moved here and my father built this inn with his own two hands. Well, not this inn, the old one burned down when my husband was still alive, but it was in this very spot. Back then there was only two official town buildings, this was before we had a post and a name on the map, see. The area was untamed, man had no power here,” she said, then huffed a bit to herself. “Preferred it that way, myself, men are always so full of themselves,” she said, and her son groaned behind the counter.

“Ignore her, she’s old and cranky with the cold,” said Mallory, but Q merely smiled and waited for the old woman to continue.

“Mallory is just waiting for me to die so he can use my room for an office,” she said, raising her voice so her son would clearly hear her words.

“I’m sorry I ever mentioned it in front of you,” said Mallory, refusing to look at them anymore. Q laughed, then realized it might not be appropriate to do so. He slapped a hand over his mouth and worried, eyes wide, that he might have offended her and she would promptly have her son kick him out.

But the woman nearly cackled and leaned back in her chair. “Be a dear and fetch me some tea, Mallory?” she said, closing her eyes. “Where was I..?”

“Untamed by man,” said Mallory, already setting the water to boil in the kettle.

“Untamed by man, the land was not just empty as some would think. The air was fresh, the water was clean, and the trees and hills seemed to go on for miles. I would climb to the tallest limbs and look out over the countryside and the world was never ending. We were more respectful back then, both of the land and of each other. There were only a few families making their homes here with us, and each knew their place was no less temporary than the trees they cut for their roundhouses. We worshipped the Gods freely and without shame, unlike now, and we flourished in our humility and honesty.”

“What she speaks of is barbarianism,” said Mallory, his voice however gentle.

“I speak of the golden age,” said his mother, snapping in defense of what she knew and loved and lost as the times changed. “When men and women worked together and we did not demand unrealistic bounties from the land. That’s the real reason for all this suffering,” she said. “Before we turned our backs on our roots and shunned Nature from our hearts. The forest was alive then, and it would speak to you when you walked its paths. Deer were not afraid and wolves were not hateful, and the world itself helped us thrive.”

Mallory sighed and Q tore his eyes away from where they had been previously enraptured with the woman before him, a woman who reminded him so much of his mother he wanted to climb into her lap and let her soothe his sorrows with her frail hands and steady words. Mallory looked almost resigned as he brought her tea over, and some for Q as well. He sat on a chair nearby, including himself in the conversation. “These are the stories you told me as a child,” he said. “They are just tales. However powerful, Nature does not turn against us consciously.”

“Do you forget, boy, the day you fell into the lake and no one could say what saved you?”

“Father jumped in after me,” said Mallory, humouring his mother.

“By the time he reached you, you were no longer breathing. He physically rescued you from the water, yes, but do you know what revived you from a cold, dark death? I feared I would lose you, as young as you were, but a light entered our house that night and drove the cold from your lung. It wrapped you in warmth and life and delivered you to my breast. You’ve been able to swim like a fish ever since,” she said, both fond and proud.

Mallory, at first, didn’t seem to know what to say. “No one witnessed this but you,” he said, “father was at the chapel praying fervently. It could have been his prayer that brought the mercy of an angel.”

“Angel of Mercy, mayhaps,” she said, frowning, “no matter your belief, something happened. And that same light is back now, after almost forty years, and forty years before that as well.”

“You think it’s… an angel?” said Q, speaking for the first time since the story began. The last of his tea was cold, forgotten in his cup, but his attention was genuine and his interest pure. The old woman smiled down at him gently.

“Angels come to us for many reasons, in many forms. The Gods must find new ways to speak when our ears are muffled and our eyes shut,” she said.

“What is it trying to say now? Why is it doing these things? I… cannot think of a reason for an angel to hurt anyone, no matter the cause,” said Q.

“Some angels have fallen from grace,” said Mallory, but his mother snorted.

“There is no good and evil in Nature, only relativity. Do we not view wolves as evil and vicious, for hurting us? Then what are we to the deer, and the wolves themselves? To the birds in the trees and the fish in the lake? We do what we must to survive, just as they all do, and there can be no judgement for those needs. With a bit of balance, man would put no strain onto the world. But we do, and thus, the Gods must find their own wolves to cast upon us and keep us in our place.”

“So this is punishment?” asked Q.

“This is retribution,” said the old woman. “We have taken too much from this world, taken more than our due, and now the Gods say we must remember our humility and repent to them. That,” she said, “is why they send the Stag.”


	3. Chapter 3

“The Stag?” said Q, utterly confused.

“My mother believes the monster takes the form of a Stag during its rampage. It is extremely painful to look at directly, so none have been able to say otherwise. Now everyone in town calls it the Stag, and some are calling for the hunt and sacrifice of young stags,” said Mallory. “As if slaughtering multitudes of forest creatures would placate what appears to be, as my mother insists, a forest guardian.”

“A guardian? You said it was an angel,” said Q, frowning and looking back to the old woman for answers.

Mallory answered first. “Now you see her hysteria,” said Mallory, “she says one thing one minutes, then another the next. Don’t listen to her, boy, and be on your way.”

Q nodded, standing, and handed the man the mug of cold tea. Mallory set them on the counter and kept his eyes on Q now that he was on his feet again, as if he believed Q moving would result in Q stealing. Q gave his best gracious smile, then turned to thank the old woman.

“Thank you for your stories, the town is blessed to have your wealth of wisdom at their disposal,” he said, bowing politely.

The old woman smiled, “its nice to find a young person willing to sit and listen. Unlike my ungrateful son,” she said, directing the words to Mallory deliberately. Q chuckled. “What is your name, dear?”

“Oh,” said Q, freezing up in indecision. “My name is… Quentin,” he said, remembering the common version of the name his mother had given him. His mother had rarely used it, much preferring to call him Q unless she was upset with him, and so he had nearly forgotten it. He hoped by giving this nice woman his real name, he might not forget it again.

“Quentin,” she said, “what a lovely name. You may call me Emmeline, or just M for short. I am the oldest woman in this town, and the oldest person too. No one has lived here longer than I. If you ever need anything, come to me, and don’t let Mallory bully you away either. He’s a very nice man and a good son, once you get passed his withdrawn demeanor,” she said.

“Thank you for your help,” said Q, smiling broadly. “I always worry when I see the light, or the Stag, rather, at night.”

“You see it?” asked Mallory, suspicion in his voice.

“Before it crosses the lake, yes, as it heads here. I have not built up the courage to come to your aide before now, but I believe I must,” said Q.

“You want to help us,” said M, “how? Do you know something we do not?”

“I know only what you have told me, but you have treated me well here and I do not want anyone hurt if there was something I could do to help it. I do not even know if there’s anything I _can_ do for you, but I must try, yes?” said Q, determined as ever before.

“Yes, I suppose,” said Mallory.

“Your heart is pure, but you are naïve. Do not throw yourself in harm’s way for the sake of valor nor compassion,” said M, “leave this area and live your life. If they are not completely dense, the rest of this town will follow you.”

“It’s best you go,” said Mallory, herding him towards the door. “My mother will talk for days if you let her. Take this and keep yourself safe,” said Mallory, handing him a thick wool blanket that looked old but smelled clean. “Come back if you ever grow tired of camping out in the woods,” he said.

“Visit if you ever dare leave your village,” said Q, his words daring, and Mallory’s lips quirked before the man had a chance to close the door fast enough to hide it. Q hugged the blanket close and left, hurrying outside the town walls and following the edge of the lake back to his homestead. He slept well that night, warmer than ever before.

Another month passed and Q spent his days chopping trees with his hatchet to burn in his hearth and checking his baits and snares. He learned very quickly that if he brought Mallory fresh fish the man would pay him well. A new pair of woolen trousers soon joined his shabby wardrobe, along with wax candles and dried yams in his storage. M knitted Q a hat to cover his “cute ears” at night, protesting at once the idea of him living all alone on the other side of the lake. Q smiled away their worries and made sure not to linger when strangers came to the store and took an interest in his presence.

His homestead grew warm and healthy alongside his heart and for the first time since his mother died Q dared to think he had friends. He may not fully trust Mallory or M, certainly not with his secrets, but he did like them and enjoyed the days he found the time to visit them. They treated him well, invited him to eat with them and often gave him gifts (at M’s prompting towards her son).

When snow fell for the first time and M complained about the cold seeping into her old bones, Q made her a special blend of herbs to add to her tea to drive the cold away. Her fingers no longer stiff, she knitted him a scarf.

And one day, Q met Mallory’s daughter. She was young and beautiful and Q had no idea how to act around her. He did his best to remain polite but often found himself to flustered by her presence to contribute much to the conversations she began. And converse she did, Q had never met someone who could talk so eloquently or so sweetly for hours on end, spinning tales of winding roads and stormy seas and strong men who adventured alongside strong women and fell in love. Q’s eyes rounded with wonder each time he found Eve sitting at one of the tables with a notebook just waiting to be filled. She would fill him in on what had happened to her heroes and heroines since he last saw her.

He loved her, perhaps as much as he loved her grandmother and not altogether differently. She kissed him on the cheek once, as he was parting, and he smiled brighter than the sun on a summer’s day but knew it was not the love her heroes felt for her heroines. Perhaps something was wrong with him, because Eve was beautiful and M made no attempts to make her approval of their bond a private one. Eve had someone she fancied in the village, Q soon learned, and he was sure they would be happy with her and told her so. One day, maybe, he would see them wed, as he knew humans were ought to do when they loved one another. He wondered if he’d ever find someone he wanted to marry as well, and smiled to himself on his walks through the wood at the thought of it. He was a romantic at heart, it seemed, if pessimistic at best.

It was these bonds formed as the air grew colder and the forest blanketed in white more often than not that he thought of first when the New Moon arrived and the Stag along with it. Fear gripped his heart as the sun went down and the woods fell silent, and Q knew at once he could not sit idly by as the spirit attacked the town and hurt his new family. They were his family, he recognized this, and he hoped to keep them safe and close for many years to come. He could not allow this to continue, not when his blood might give him an advantage over anyone else who was willing and able to help. But what could he do?

As soon as the Stag neared, and when it drew close he could see it was indeed in the shape of a buck with antlers cast out far on each side of its regal head and long legs to carry its weight, he stepped forward to confront it. It had to be angry with the destruction it was wreaking upon the town and Q was relatively weaponless should it turn its ire upon him instead, but he had to try.

“Stop!” he yelled, not knowing what else to do. There was no reason for him to pick a fight with it if he could try to talk with it instead. “Stop please!” he called, sure it could hear and understand him. “I want to talk to you, I need to!”

The Stag slowed in its journey towards the lake, its wide crest swinging from side to side as if irritated. He heard it grunt, a strange short sound, when he edge closer. “Please, I know you can hear me,” he said, keeping his own voice low and calm so not to anger or even spook it. “You’re hurting people, people with children and fears and dreams, good people along with the bad ones. Indiscriminate violence isn’t going to solve anything… please talk to me, tell me, show me, what’s upsetting you so much you want to hurt these people.”

He stepped too close, and all at once the stillness and beauty that mesmerized him turned against him. Blinded by the light it emitted, he couldn’t see it charge straight for him. It knocked him down even as it passed through his body, pulling the breath from his lungs and leaving him nauseous. He closed his eyes and prayed for his own safety and the Stag lost interest in him, heading across the lake once again. Tears of fear filled his eyes as he watched it go and he knew that he had failed.

He lay awake that night, thoughts plagued by the sounds of terror and destruction from the town on the other side of the lake. When he fell asleep, he dreamed dreams not his own. A different body he possessed and he walked through the underbrush of the forest in the spring, at peace and in harmony with all things around him. The animals looked at him with a certain amount of reverence but otherwise paid him no mind as he moved through their numbers. The trees whispered to him in the breeze, speaking of the warmth of the sun after so long a winter, their buds young and eager to taste the rain. The ground beneath his feet moaned and groaned against the winter it had endured, smothered and suffocated beneath heavy layers of frost and snow and ice for so many months. All was as it should be.

He stood at the edge of the lake and listened to the fish sing about warmer waters and the disappearance of the ice above them, keeping them from tasting the sky. New bugs plagued the surface and kept them fat and happy, and he smiled as he watched the birds dance, fat on the fat fish and happy on the new beginnings each spring brought. There, across the lake, sat nothing but tall pines and unblemished hillside, and he knew, for some reason, from the bottom of his heart that the forest was safe.

Q woke up standing on the edge of the lake in no way dressed for the cold of the morning. He looked across the lake and saw the smoke rising from the homes that sat there and realized his dreams were not dreams at all, but memories.

He donned his proper boots and his cloak and left the hearth in his roundhouse to dwindle as he was gone. He ran around the edge of the lake, fear and adrenaline driving his every step. He had to see what had happened the night before, even if it might break his heart. He pushed himself until his lungs burned from the unusual exercise, and his legs felt weak even as he neared the wooden pike walls of the village. He passed through the gate unhindered, as everyone was too busy herding their families away from the buildings that still burned with flame and caved in on themselves. There was a crowd of people around Mallory’s shop, which was still standing thankfully. Q heaved a sigh of relief even as he weaved his way through the crowd, looking for Mallory or M or Eve.

“Q!” called Eve, making her way to his side on the porch of the shop. There will people milling around them, huddling into their warmest clothes for protection against the cold morning. “What are you doing here?”

“Eve,” he said, his hands grasping around hers in a form of comfort. “I came as soon as I woke. I had to make sure you were okay,” he said, “where’s M, I need to speak with her.”

“She’s inside, I’ll take you to her,” said Eve, and she took his hand to lead him throat the crowd. “You really live out in the woods then?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, but his mind was busy. “Eve, why are people gathering here?” he asked. She looked at him over her shoulder.

“My family has been here longer than most. We have a place of importance in the town because of that, and many people trust my father to make decisions for all of us. He meets with the heads of the other families now to discuss what needs to be done. We also welcome people into our home and share our food if they have none,” she said, and his heart warmed a little to think of their generosity in the face of despair.

“I’m glad I know you,” said Q, and Eve gave him a funny look.

“You say such strange things sometimes, but I’m glad I know you as well,” she said, and then pushed him up the first few steps on the stairs. “First door on the right. She’s taking her tea in the privacy of her own room. Come down for some food when you’re done speaking,” said Eve, and Q nodded.

M answered on the third knock of his knuckles on her door. “Who is it now?” she said, and Q smiled.

“It’s Q, I have something I need to speak with you about,” he said, and pressed his ear against the door to hear her speak clearly.

“Come in,” she said. Her room was small but warm and comfortable, and she bid him to sit at the desk shoved into the corner. She sat on her bed as if it was a throne, throws and cushions all around her to prop her up and keep her contented, but the expression on her face made it clear she wasn’t happy to be holed up in her room. “Can’t get any peace and quiet today,” she said, and sipped her tea.

“There’s a crowd downstairs, for sure. I hope they haven’t been disturbing you,” he said, sitting awkwardly stiff on the wooden chair.

“Dire times,” she said. “How are you, Q? All alone in that forest on nights like last.”

“I am never bothered… Or I wasn’t…” he said. At the look she shot him over the rim of her cup, he rushed to continue. “I saw the Stag. And I confronted it. I wanted to… talk to it,” he said, shrinking into his seat because it sounded stupid once he said it aloud.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” she said, and he stared at her. “I was young once too, you know, and that spirit is older than I am, than any of us combined. When my parents found me I was sweating out a fever on the forest floor, and almost didn’t recover. That Stag has a history with my family, though I fear what influence it will have on Eve given its current state. It wasn’t always malicious, you know,” she said.

“I know,” he said, “I saw. It gave me dreams. Dreams about the forest before people showed up and founded this town, I believe. The hill we sit upon was untouched.”

M eyed him silently for a few minutes, long enough for him to shift under the scrutiny. “You’re sure they were not just your imagination? The time you speak of would have been before my time, at least seventy years ago if not more. The Stag is timeless, ethereal, why would it share such a thing with you?”

Q knew he couldn’t admit his mother’s line to M, as much as he loved her. He chose, instead, to explain the circumstances of meeting the Stag, not somehow gaining the blessing of its memories. “It ran straight at him, ran through me really. It left me on the ground, and that night, I dreamt of something I have never seen before, never cared to contemplate. I think it was a message,” he said.

“Yes… yes a message. The Stag wants us humans gone, as I’ve been saying for years, since before this madness started. It’s angry with us,” she said, and as much as Q wanted to believe her, something felt off.

“You’ve never heard of anything like this before?” he asked, instead of expressing his doubt about the Stag’s supposed intentions.

“Not even in tales,” she said, setting her teacup down on her nightstand. “You should move out of the forest and live with us,” she said, “despite the Stag on the New Moon, it is much safer for you here. The wood is not a place for a young man to live, not alone and not in the winter.”

Q thought about it, his eyes wandering to the framed paintings on the walls of beautiful landscapes and regal family members. The room was nice, and he could see himself living in such a place, but it was not his home, nothing like how he was used to living. He would also hate to impose upon their family, not when they were so stretched thin already.

“No,” he said, “thank you, I wish I could on good conscience, but no. My place is in the wood, dangerous or not.” He stood and drew his scarf in place around his neck and mouth. “I will return when I have more to share,” he said, meaning both information about the Stag and perhaps goods to trade. “If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask,” he said, and took her hand when she offered it. Compared to his own, healthy and slender, hers was small and weak, but he squeezed her fingers gently after she did the same to him.

“Stay safe,” she said, “and do not approach the Stag, for your own sake.”

He bowed his head and left, and knew that for all he respected her wisdom, he would make no progress following her instruction. He needed a plan for the next New Moon.


End file.
